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My Bloody Valentine

9

In 2013, I had an opportunity to kiss a girl. I know this might sound like I had never kissed a girl before but that isn’t the case.

I had a crush on this girl for the longest time. And when I say crush, I mean a borderline psychotic obsession. Creepy behavior, if I may. She had long flawless legs and curvy hips. When her socks weren’t up to her knees and I’d see these legs, a wave of horniness would wash over me. I lived for tea and lunch breaks because those were my opportunities to see her. And for us to blossom in the beautiful relationship we were in in my head.

Her hair was short. Not shaved, just short. And her teeth were so white, so perfectly arranged that when she smiled, she lit up my whole world.

Fuck, I was in love.

Thing with crushes is, they completely overcome you. You’re always thinking about the girl. Even on sleepy afternoon classes when you doze off, her face is what you see when you close your eyes. And all these symptoms worsen when you’re in puberty with testosterone rummaging through your veins.

So what does Simon do?

Simon devices his first of many masterpieces on ‘how to get the girl’ – a masterpiece that every man has to device at least once in his lifetime. He sits in his dorm room for hours after others are asleep and he schemes. He draws blueprints. He calculates. And he finishes with a prayer.

God, you created love, and you are love, and I am in love with this girl. Give me confidence when I talk to her tomorrow and help me not say the wrong things. I know I can be weird sometimes. I pray that I may not be weird tomorrow. Amen.

The plan was simple. My friend who was in her class was to introduce us. All he wanted in return was four slices of bread. I gave them to him. Hell, I’d have given him a whole bakery if he asked for it.

I was to walk into their class after supper and borrow a book from him. He was not to have this book, so that we’d go to the love of my life and ask her for the book. In the process, an introduction between Simon and said love of life would be done. Men, weren’t we pussies.

Because God hears pubescent’s prayers, everything went as planned apart from a sweaty handshake between me and her. The sweat was mine.

*

Two weeks later, we are really close. Murmurs are going around school that we’re dating but we’re not. I’m waiting for Sport’s Day that Saturday so we can sneak out into an empty classroom and kiss the fuck out of each other and hopefully more.

I’m psyched that whole week. I’m about to kiss the girl. I have it all planned out in my head. From what I’d say to what I’d wear. I stole an immaculately white t-shirt to wear, well-fitting one that showed my chest and little biceps.

I should mention that I played hockey in high school. So I was part of the team that would rep my class that Saturday. Luckily, hockey matches were scheduled in the morning and by 11.am I’d be done. My plan was still intact.

Saturday comes and I’m all charged up. I wake up early for one last practice session with the boys before the games. Then I head for breakfast. There, I meet Valentine, love of my life. We talk. Or rather, she talks as my mind wanders off because her nipples are showing through her tight pink t-shirt.

*

The referee blows for a start. I raise my head from time to time just to see her. She looks amazing. Her lips are full and succulent. They’re ready for today’s ritual. She smiles every time our eyes meet and my world lights up each time.

Then all of a sudden I hear people shout my name, and then everything goes dark.

When I come to, there’s paralyzing pain on my face.  The sun above burns my eyes. My head is now throbbing violently and there’s a metallic taste in my mouth. Everything comes to focus and I see people surrounding me. They cover their mouths in horror as they stare down on me. In their eyes, worry spells.

I sit up and see the grass around me covered in blood. The small hockey ball lies beside bloody on one side.

The throbbing stops and now, the lower side of my face is numb. I spit out bloodied saliva and as I wipe, a sharp pain shoots through my head. My upper lip is busted a good one, ripped at the center like cheap pants.

God is undefeated with his humor.

Be a darling and share this:

King

King is a mad writer on the loose. He is suspected to have lost his mind a few years after he was born. Since then, he has been writing his mind almost everywhere he can put his pen on. Someone – a government, a state, a police force, a parent, a teacher, a rabbi, a president, a sacco, a doctor, a deranged ex, a church, a therapist, or anyone with a bit of power bestowed upon them – should reprimand him and help him.

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